


Five To One

by cowbellgalore



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Blood, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovered Memories, Themes of Dissociation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2610593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowbellgalore/pseuds/cowbellgalore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky!centric</p><p>Bucky comes home to Steve in five steps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five To One

**пять**

 

 

 

 

He stares at the exhibit. He’s spent hours drinking in every bit of information he can; every sign, every plaque, the fine print thanking donors, background figures in every photograph.

He’s depleted every source of the man in the Brooklyn apartment talking to his target- on the bridge- falling into the water. When he dragged him on the embankment, he could see him struggle to breathe, water draining out of his mouth. It reminds him of… something- something from a long time ago, of the heaving chest of an asthmatic. But who is the asthmatic? The Smithsonian says that the man used to be asthmatic- maybe it is him?

When there aren’t a lot of people around, he stands directly in front of the ‘Howling Commandos’, in front of the naked mannequin. He bores holes with his eyes into the stark white, as if staring at it harder will make it surrender answers. He moves to the right two over when his head starts to hurt, and it stings even more when he looks at the blue uniform.

Some days he sits in the empty apartments he finds and examines the thing attached to his body closely. It looks like an arm and functions like one too, but his mind can’t process it. It works fine, but there’s a disconnect between using it and looking at it. He touches his metal thumb to finger after metal finger for hours, comparing it to the same method on his other hand.

It just doesn’t make sense. It’s metal, it makes whirring noises and clicks when he moves, and it’s ten times stronger than his other arm. Ever since letting go and falling into the water after the man, after his mission, after Captain America- ever since then the 'arm' looks out of place.

When he stands shirtless in front of the mirror, the metal looks garish next to the scar tissue of his shoulder, neck and chest. When he turns, the red star begs to be erased, and he does everything he can to scrub it off. It never gives, and it looks like a stain on his shoulder.

Out of curiosity, he sticks a metal finger into a socket one day and watches it short. He renders it immobile for an hour, intently watches blue sparks flicker up and down it but not feeling it, shakes it off when he’s bored.

He visits the Smithsonian one last time. He watches people that mill through the exhibit, how they stare up in awe at Captain America’s transformation from a scrawny stubborn young man, too big for his small frail body- to a bigger, stronger, stubborn soldier.

The Captain has bright blue eyes; they look more distant in recent pictures, almost like he’s concealing pain. His shoulders are broad but he looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world on them.

There’s a video of a woman, familiar, with gentle but resolute eyes. She looks melancholy, but only talks highly of the Captain.

There’s a video of an old reel that shows the Captain with his Sergeant. The Captain smiles. The Captain doesn’t smile in any other piece.

He watches the children read the memorial to James Buchanan Barnes, how their faces light up, how they salute, how they thank him.

He decides that whoever James Buchanan Barnes was, he wants to be him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**четыре**

 

 

 

 

She speaks in Russian to him, tells him that the Captain and his comrade have been looking for him. He asks her why she thinks he cares but she doesn’t answer, tells him to carry out more reconnaissance or he’ll overwhelm himself.

He listens to her, to this Natalia, because she listens to him too. She shows him the gunshot wound and he nearly breaks in on himself if not for her quiet whispers, assurance that it’s okay. He takes her advice and tries to find people who know about his past. It isn’t until weeks have passed that he hears wisps of a conversation in the park and tries to get closer.

“-or that show in Chicago? I was there!”

“Oh my, really?”

“Second row, behind a group of children, so adorable, trying to tell the Captain that Hitler was behind the dancers.”

“That must have been something. I wish I’d gotten to see one of those, never got there early enough.”

“I met him, after the show- got a picture- look! I was in the papers!”

“Goodness, Barbara, you look absolutely gorgeous! And he’s so handsome, should have latched onto that when you had a chance!”

“Oh Betty you devil! I wouldn’t know what to do with myself- sitting at home, worrying about him going off to war. He was a stubborn one, I heard, went against orders to free our soldiers. A good man, but a stubborn one.”

He listens to the pair, chatting back and forth about the war, about the Captain. He perks up at the mention of a-

“Sergeant Barnes, yes, right shame that. He was handsome too, heard he was a bit of a ladies’ man.”

“I’m sure he had ladies falling at his feet, I know I would have if I saw him. I’d have taken him around the block-”

“Betty!”

“Let a woman dream! He was a good man too, did you hear? After the Captain saved him in Azzano? He wouldn’t even leave without him!”

“No-!”

“Yes _!_ And that was the first time he’d seen him as a beefcake-”

“ _Betty!_ ”

“Oh my granddaughter says it all the time, let me have my fun! But how horrible, to die like that, falling off a train- and the Captain! He had to watch it, I can’t imagine...”

They continue on about Captain America and Sergeant Barnes, about Bucky, about… him. He sits on the ground and crosses his legs, staring at nothing on the ground while he listens intently.

Something inside him starts to crack, and it isn’t until he hears the soft _pat_ of a drop on a fallen leaf in front of him does he realise he’s crying.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**три (three)**

 

 

 

 

It happens so fast, he doesn’t know he’s bleeding until the smell of iron infiltrates his senses.

He jerks his hand away from his face, the cut from jumping the fence –deeper than he thought- oozes out blood. He stumbles into an alley and tries not to cry out, tries not to react to the onslaught of images- guns, blood everywhere, screaming people, the stench of _death_ lingering in the air.

He can’t calm down, can’t make it go away. His body moves on autopilot, his brain in overdrive trying to comprehend the blur in his mind. He crashes through a window and scrubs his hand on his pants leg, hyperventilating while he turns his head away from the red stain.

It’s stale in the apartment- not unpleasant and musty, but like someone hasn’t lived in it properly.

He can almost smell the hesitation and caution rolling off the Captain and his friend in waves, the sweat that beads at their heads.

“Bucky,” the Captain breathes out.

It still doesn’t feel right to call himself that, but when it comes from the Captain’s mouth, it doesn’t seem so bad. It calms him a little, evens out his breathing.

Bucky tries it back.

“Steve…”

He approaches them, slowly. Steve’s friend gets into a defensive position, but Steve holds out a hand, lets him know it’s okay as Bucky gets closer.

He walks until he’s close to Steve, so close he can feel his breath on his face. They must have had something with peanuts for dinner, Thai –peanuts- probably, or maybe –peanuts- some kind of street food or – _peanuts-_

Bucky jerks at the memory of Steve, so skinny but spritely, throwing peanuts into his mouth. It’s Coney Island, sea breeze tickling his nostrils, tickling his tongue as he opens his mouth to the incoming peanut.

Steve says he doesn’t feel well, says the hot dog from earlier didn’t sit right with his stomach- but Bucky drags him to the Cyclone. As soon as they step off, Steve throws up over a rail, the pungent odour of bile and churned up hot dog not enough to put Bucky off laughing while he rubs Steve's back.

He crumples to the ground in a sob and Steve is over him, holding him, hugging him. Bucky doesn’t even try to fight back against the touch, body taught in fear but too mentally exhausted to do anything but heave out sobs.

Steve smells like aftershave, it’s pleasant, spicy, evokes clarity, lets Bucky know that he’s there, that it’s Steve. His face is pressed up against Steve’s chest and he can smell his sweat through the shirt, masked by a woody reassuring deodorant.

“Sam, could you please get me antiseptic and a bandage? In the medicine cabinet,” says Steve, peanut breath tickling Bucky’s hair.

Bucky can hear Sam’s quick feet on the floor, and lets himself sink into Steve’s hold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

****два** (two)**

 

 

 

 

“This is as close as I can get it to mom’s recipe,” says Steve as he takes the pie from the oven. The whole kitchen smells like warm sweet pastry which makes Bucky want to lick his lips. He squashes the urge, sits rigid in his seat.

Steve cuts a slice and sets it on a plate in front of Bucky. “They put ice cream on it sometimes too. Mom didn’t do that, we couldn’t afford it, but it tastes great without it. I’ll give you some though, if you want?”

Bucky doesn’t know what he wants, just looks up at Steve helplessly.

Steve gives a small half smile. “I’ll let you try the pie first.”

It looks more than appetising and Bucky’s hands strain in his lap, fighting the urge to pick up the fork and find out if it tastes as good as it smells. He looks up at Steve who nods, wordlessly, and Bucky lets his body give in.

As soon as the pie touches his tongue he can see it; a warm summer evening, pie cooling by the window-sill as he and Steve play outside. Mrs. Rogers calls them in and by the time they get to the kitchen, there’s already two plates with generous slices waiting for them.

The pastry is crispy- there’s a satisfying crunch when he bites into the crust and he makes a pleased sound in sync with Steve. The hot jam, not quite scalding but warm enough that he needs to roll it around in his mouth for a bit is sweet and gooey. The baked apple slices inside are so warm, so good, deliciously addicting. His favourite part is the bottom where the pastry to apple and jam ratio is just right- it makes his taste buds dance and he feels like he could eat Mrs. Rogers’ home-made apple pie for the rest of his life.

When they’re finished, there are crumbs all over their faces, and Mrs. Rogers cleans them both up with a damp cloth. She goes on and on about how messy they are- how fast they eat their food- what am I going to do with you two?

Mrs. Rogers’ kind smile must be genetic.

Bucky makes the same pleased sound he made over seventy years ago. Steve’s apple pie is so close, nearly perfect. He wants to savour it, wants the taste to last forever on his tongue. He stabs his fork back into the pie and instead hits the plate, unaware the whole slice has disappeared into his stomach in his trance-like state.

He bites his lip- would he get another slice? Would he ever taste that again? Would he- but Steve, beaming, places another slice on his plate and says kindly, “Eat as much as you want.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**one**

 

 

 

 

Bucky’s eyes shoot open from the dream- not a nightmare, but not pleasant either. He shivers; his skin gooseflesh.

Something shifts behind him and he tenses.

A hand slides over his side, sleepy and heavy. It pulls him by the stomach back, back into a firm chest, a strong body.

A puff of breath tickles the back of his head, air weaving through the strands to touch his neck gently; short hairs there stand to attention.

He shifts his shoulders, blankets slipping off metal, the sensation ghostly but stronger than before. He didn’t feel much when it was taken apart and put back together by Anthony Stark, but he did feel it when Stephen Strange helped reattach it to his body. He feels it when Sam Wilson pats his back, when Bruce Banner accidentally walks into him, when Thor of Asgard shakes his hand firmly. He feels it when Clint Barton softly punches his shoulder in jest, when Natalia lays her head there when she needs to.

It’s so warm. His chest cools a little when he unfolds his arms from his body, stretches them out. They wriggle down under the blanket to cover the hand around his middle. He lets a finger count the knuckles of the solid hand, counts them again when he’s done.

So warm, warmer than he’s ever been. He remembers, sort of, of how thin the blankets had been, how rough the couch cushions were, how tightly they held each other to keep warm.

Wooden floors in small apartments, littered with papers smudged with charcoal. The black dust feels soft between his thumb and pointer. Faux indignation vibrates the skin of Steve’s cheek; he can feel the laugh through his fingertips where he drags streaks like war-paint.

The cold seeping from the metal table through his uniform, leather tightly buckled around his body. A faint pain thrums through his body, but then there’s sweet release and recognition.

The back of a hand hits his face because of recognition, the sting of it throbs. They strap him down but here’s no sweet release this time. His brain feels like it’s strapped down too, a vice grip in his head, electricity coursing between his eyes.

But now… nothing, nothing but warmth, a gentle firmness around his body. It takes a moment for Bucky to realise this is what safety is like, security, what it means to let his guard down for once. He’s safe for now in bed with the warm body pressed behind him.

He turns around with some difficulty, blankets getting stuck between limbs and the heavy arm not relenting in its, well, heaviness. He doesn’t stop turning until he’s facing a broad chest, metal arm trapped between his body and the bed. He choses to put it there.

Bucky looks up at Steve’s face; mostly peaceful, only disturbed by slightly drawn together eyebrows. He brings up a finger and runs it over the lines on Steve’s forehead, over and over, back and forth, gently smoothing out the crease. He continues down to the tip of his nose, then back up Steve’s hairline, follows the wall of hairs.

Steve sighs in his sleep and tightens his grip on Bucky. Bucky sucks in a quiet breath at how close they are now; metal arm up to his chest now in a gentle fist, flesh hand settling in the crook of Steve’s neck.

He touches the skin there, smooth and firm, strong sinew beneath the surface.

It’s hard for him to believe that it’s over; sometimes hard to believe that it ever happened. He’s not there yet, where there is he’s not sure… but, he’s getting there.

But when he reaches out to hug Steve’s waist and leans his head on Steve’s chest with closed eyes, Bucky is just glad that he’s where he is now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> FIVE GRAYBLES can you guess the theme??? that's right it's the five fingers!
> 
> I have a [ tumblr](http://www.cowbellgalore.tumblr.com)


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